


dysphoria.

by rosegoldroman



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, dysphoria tw, hahhahaha vent fic time!!!!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 12:17:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16218875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosegoldroman/pseuds/rosegoldroman
Summary: dysphoria is a Bitch™, but at least Remy doesn’t have to deal with it alone.





	dysphoria.

**Author's Note:**

> vent fic i wrote at like. four am the other day and never posted here!!! i'm proud of it and it helped a lot but it's... heavy stuff. if you don't feel comfy with this, please don't read. take care of yourselves!! <3
> 
> dysphoria tw, blood tw, panic attack tw, self hatred tw

His skin was on backwards.

It itched, it ached; pinched in the wrong places, curved and soft and round in all the ways he knew it shouldn’t be. He stared at himself in the mirror — he’d been there for hours, or maybe only a few minutes, eyes tracing the gentle dip of his hips and the soft curve of his lips and his  ~~girly girly _girly_~~  figure — and the girl in the mirror stared back, her  _ ~~his~~_  expression empty but her  _ ** ~~his~~**_  eyes full.

Full of loathing. Full of fear. Full of revulsion.

Full of hatred.

_~~He hated it he hated it he hated **her**~~ _

His fingers curled around the counter, palms digging into the edge, stinging. The pain curled around the aching in his  ~~full round feminine~~  chest; a symphony of aching discomfort played across every inch of wrong, grating and unbearable. He was tired of listening.

 ~~Wrong.~~  He let out a breath.  ~~ _Wrong._~~  His jaw clenched, muscles dancing beneath the soft skin.  _ ** ~~Wrong.~~**_  He couldn’t stand the view in the mirror but couldn’t stand to look away, gaze dancing across her his his his body.

~~_**Wrong wrong wrong wrong WRONG WRONG** _ ~~

He yanked his hands from the countertop — they stung at the open air, painful, painful, _it was all so painful_  — and clamped them around his bare arms. He wanted to tear his reflection  _ ~~himself~~_  apart, rip out his  _too soft too curly too long_ hair, destroy himself and start from scratch. He wanted this to end. He wanted to  _begin._

The first tears came slowly. Gently. He wouldn’t have noticed them — he was numb, numb,  _numb_  — if it weren’t for the way they reflected the glow of the bathroom lights, glimmering gemstones laced with loathing.

His breathing hitched. His fingernails dug into his skin. In that moment, he was a storm, breaking apart inside and out, burning lightning and grating thunder rolled into something that was supposed to be human. Inside he was darkness, churning; outside, he was eyes flashing with pained lightning and face dripping with sparkling rain and body feared and hated and wrong wrong  _wrong_. He was a monster, a shattered doll, a cruel imitation of okay.

He was a  _girl._

A thunder-crackle sob wrenched from his throat and he hunched in on himself as the lightning seared his lungs, never tearing his eyes from the girl in the mirror. There was blood welling around her  _ ~~his~~_  fingernails, cutting scarlet trails across her  ~~ _ **his**_~~  arms. His binder dug into his chest, too tight, _too tight,_  but  _not tight enough._

His eyes slipped shut and he fell back against the wall with a sharp, pained noise, the scalding tears spilling from behind his eyelids burning the image of his reflection away. His body ached like it had been crumpled up and thrown away, his curves a caricature of the man he was supposed to be.

“I’m home!”

His eyes flew wide — the girl in the mirror jerked in shock — and he whirled towards the closed door, a panicked gasp flying from his lips.

“Pumpkin? Where are ya? I brought you a surprise!”

His fiance’s voice was a blessing and a curse rolled into one. He swiped at the tears on his cheeks as more threatened to spill over, that broken-glass feeling embedded in his lungs growing and growing and growing until it was almost unbearable. The girl in the mirror was the epitome of terror, of self-loathing.  _She_ was the last thing he wanted Emile to see.

He yanked his shirt back on and bit his lip to stop the tears, carefully reconstructing his  _ ~~fake fake fake~~_  confidence. He wiped his tears and hid the blood on his arms beneath his jacket’s sleeves, and hoped against the storm in his chest that Emile wouldn’t see right through him.

_~~and knew with the lump in his throat and the burning feeling across his face that Emile **would.**~~ _

He reached for the door handle — the door opened before he could reach it — and Remy and Emile stood opposite over the bathroom threshold, wide-eyed.

His eyes were a burning spotlight and Remy felt himself crumbling beneath the beams, his breath catching in his throat, his eyes stinging and burning as the lightning inside fought to get out, as his clouds threatened to burst. Emile’s face softened with sympathy and hardened with concern all at once, and Remy felt  ~~small weak round soft _girly_~~  beneath his gaze, and his confidence broke all in a rush.

And it began to rain.

“Oh,  _Rem,”_  Emile breathed, setting whatever he was holding down and reaching forward to set his hands on Remy’s shoulders. Remy’s name on Emile’s tongue was a breath of air among the churning within and he let out a shaky, sob-stricken noise, Emile swirling into a blur of soft peaches and pinks as his eyes welled with unbidden tears once more.

_**~~Wrong wrong wrong~~ ** _

“Rem, can you hear me?” Emile’s voice was soft in that special way that could break through the storm, and his hands were the only things keeping Remy from blowing away in the wind. At Remy’s nod, he continued. “Can you breathe for me, pumpkin? You know the pattern, four-seven eight. We can do it together.”

**_~~Wrong wrong WRONG~~ _ **

They sank to the bathroom floor and Emile moved to clasp one of Remy’s hands between his own. He set them atop his own chest and breathed deeply, tapping the familiar pattern on Remy’s wrist, and Remy strained to hear him through the thunder.

 ** _ ~~WRONG~~_**   _4-7-8_   _ ** ~~Wrong~~** 4-7-8  ** ~~wrong~~**  4-7-8._

“It’s going to be okay,” Emile said, his voice sunshine breaking through the clouds. “I’m here.”

_4-7-8 4-7-8 4-7-8_

From the floor, Remy could pick up the pieces of himself, and he breathed in time with Emile’s words if only to glue the shards back together, glue  _himself_ back into a person again. The storm was slowing, now; deafening thunder quieting to a gentle rumble in his heart, violent lightning calming to a flash of relief in his eyes.

Slowly, as though worried he’d shatter all over again, he drew his hand from Emile’s chest and laced their fingers together, reaching up with his other hand to wipe the tears away with his sleeve. The two shifted in unison until they were leaning against the bottom cabinets, and Remy rested his head on Emile’s shoulder, letting out an exhausted sigh.

“Dysphoria… is a bitch,” Remy said finally, allowing his eyes to slip shut as Emile’s other arm settled around his shoulders. He curled deeper into Emile’s side, allowing his sunshine-warmth to dry the rain inside.

In that moment, happiness tasted like bittersweet petrichor.

“I agree with ya there, Pumpkin,” Emile sighed, giving Remy’s hand a comforting squeeze. “Are you okay now?”

“Just  _gucci,”_  he quipped, and let out a tired noise. “I’m sorry, hun, usually I can just power through and ignore this shit, but… it just be like This sometimes.”

“Shush, Pumpkin. There’s no need to apologize.” Emile’s hand moved to brush gently through Remy’s hair. “There is nothing wrong with letting people who love you help you. A little help from others can be a great blessing,” he recited dutifully, voice holding the hint of a smile.

Remy snorted. “Okay,  _uncle Iroh._  Got any other  _fabulous_  wisdom for me?”

If Emile’s smile was the sunshine to warm him after a rainy day, his laughter was birdsong and windchimes and a summer’s breeze all rolled into one, the signs of life after a violent storm. There wasn’t a single sound in the world that Remy loved more.

“Yes, actually!” Emile said, smile growing into a grin as he glanced at the counter above. “When in doubt, drown your sorrows in cuddles, cartoon marathons, and…” He drew his arms from around Remy and reached up, pulling down what he’d brought home: a tray of Starbucks drinks. “Pumpkin spiced lattes!”

 _“Gurl,_  you  _didn’t,”_  Remy gasped, eyes alight with surprise.

“Oh, I did!” Emile pulled one of the cups from the tray and held it out, eyes sparkling. “They just started selling them today! Happy autumn, my Pumpkin Spice.”

“Bless the _fuck_ up,” Remy said, holding the warm cup as though it were the second most beautiful treasure in the world. He looked up at the first most beautiful, who was smiling as he sipped his own latte, expression soft and fond and perfect. The scent wafting from the lid hit him a moment later, and he let out a satisfied noise, eyes slipping shut. “Ugh, it’s like snorting essence of fall. Hun, you’re a  _blessing.”_

“Glad to help!” Emile said, setting his own cup down. “Go on, take a taste!”

Remy glanced at the cup in his hands — there were little pumpkins and hearts doodled across the styrofoam, no doubt Emile’s doing — and back up at his fiance. Oh, he was going to take a taste, alright.

“Sure thing, sugar,” he said softly, and leaned forward.

Emile was the summer’s day to his storm, and his kisses were no different; he tasted of sunsets and sprinklers and stargazing, and of pumpkin spice and love, and it was the most delicious thing Remy had ever tasted. Emile’s hands came up to cup the back of his head, and the kiss deepened, gentle, soft, _right._

“Mmm,” Remy said as they pulled apart, face red and heart fluttering. “Delicious.”

“Great  _googly moogly,”_  Emile breathed, cheeks dusted with pink. Remy felt something within him heal as he burst out laughing, and when Emile joined a moment later, that broken-glass feeling finally disappeared.

He was still short, and round, and curvy, his chest too much, his hair too long — but how could he feel wrong, with pumpkin-flavored love on his lips, with Emile’s hand in his? For now, healing was sitting on the bathroom floor, laughing and sipping pumpkin-spiced lattes, and later, it would be falling asleep in Emile’s arms to the tune of Steven Universe. For now, he felt okay.

For now, he felt loved.

For now, he felt right.

**Author's Note:**

> Weak Endings? In my fics? It's more likely than you'd think :)))
> 
> tbh tho if u relate to this at all,,,,,, im sending all the hugs n love ur way !!!! i blove n support u all <3


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